


Twice-Born Child

by Spyglass_Lens



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elf/Human Relationship(s), Multi, Rating May Change, where are all the elf-blooded inquisitors dammit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spyglass_Lens/pseuds/Spyglass_Lens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An elf-blood, a magic hand mark, and a terrible string of unfortunate events all walk into a tavern.<br/>Aka, Elf-blooded Inquisitor just trying to get by for once in her thrice-damned life.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Adalora

A child’s first memory is often thought to be the most precious, however hazy it might be. For Adalora of the Dalish clan Lavellan, this was the opposite of truth. Her first memory was of fire and the tragic death of her father. 

Adalora was 4 years old when a raging group of shemlen tore through the humble cottage that her family had built from the ground up. They threw flaming bottles of wine, rocks, anything they could get their hands on before tearing into the cottage themselves, set on revenge from whatever slight her family had committed. She recalled her father holding her close, whispering tales of princesses and dragons and elvhen maidens as he lowered her down onto the dirt underneath the house. He closed the small trap door above her with his last words to her, “Stay calm Addy, that’s my good girl.”

Adalora remembered how fuzzy everything became after that, terrible noises that seemed to roar from every inch of the cottage, a dull thump as her father’s lifeless body fell to the ground, the warm trickle of his blood from above as it fell between the floorboards onto her face, and a deathly silence that seemed to stretch eternally into her memory. Eventually, Adalora’s mother returned from her hunting trip and, upon discovering the ruins of the cottage and her husband’s lifeless body within, called out for her missing child. 

She remembered little after, only blurred landscapes as she and her mother travelled for what seemed like ages before coming upon Clan Lavellan, her mother’s tribe. Only later did Adalora learn that her mother had fallen in love with a shemlen trader, with whom Adalora shared her olive colored skin and dark rust-colored hair with, and abandoned Clan Lavellan. The Clan Elders had condemned Adalora’s mother, Velinne, for running away and breeding a half-blood. They debated on whether or not to just kill Velinne and her vermin, but the humble Keeper had stepped in and allowed Velinne and Adalora to live within the camp, if just to prove their worth.

Despite Adalora being a half-blood, it seemed she had no true callings of the Dalish. The Halla hated her with a passion, her traps were always trampled, her skill with a bow and arrow was absolutely dismal, not to mention how she failed to follow the Vir Tanadhal. 

“Be swift and silent,” the Elders would preach, if by silent they had meant Adalora’s impressive ability to find the smallest of rocks to trip over and scare off even the smallest of nugs. 

“Bend but never break,” as if they had predicted Adalora’s infamous temper with it’s ability to flare to life at any moment, causing more than one altercation between herself and another child.

“Together we are stronger than one”, obviously not taking into account the cruel children who would tug at Adalora’s rounded ears and slap her broadening shoulders before leaving her to wallow in whatever muck they had pushed her into.

Velinne had tried to comfort her daughter, but no matter what she did, Adalora would always be seen as other no matter where she would turn. Eventually, Velinne sought the Keeper’s advice about how to teach Adalora, as no one in the clan had to make exceptions for a half-blood before. 

The Keeper thought upon this for sometime before he called Velinne back, “Adalora will never truly become Dalish, not in the ways that the Elders or the rest of the clan would accept her. Nor will she ever belong to the shem’len, for she will blame them always for the death of her father. Instead, we shall train her in the ways of the dagger and of shadow, so that she may bring retribution upon those that cross her path.”

Velinne was frightened that her daughter had been chosen for such a dark path, but knew that if nothing was done she might lose Adalora forever, so she allowed her daughter to be taught the ways of the shadow. Adalora learned how to sharpen her blades so that the air would not whistle past it, of the poisonous flora that grew along the edges of the forest and how to extract their poison, and how to walk unnoticed even in the most crowded of areas. To this, the half-blood took to like a halla to sweet grass, or like a fish to freshwater. Adalora finally found her calling.

When Adalora came upon her 18th year, she went to the Keeper to beg for her Vallaslin. “Haven’t I proven my worth to the Clan?” she began, “I will never truly belong to the shem or to Clan Lavellan, but I would rather die than be confused for a human.”

The Keeper conceded to Adalora’s pleas, but made one condition, “I will give you your Vallaslin, but it will be incomplete, as you are not a true-blood. Meditate and come back when you have discovered your patron.”

When Adalora came back to the Keeper, he was unsurprised that her patron was to be Elgar’nan, the God of Vengeance. Although her Vallaslin was to be incomplete, Adalora felt pride that she was to be marked. She was proud to belong to no one, proud that she would never allow another to squash her identity, because her identity was her own. 

Without even a whimper of pain, her incomplete Vallaslin had been tattooed upon the bare expanse of her forehead, She emerged with pride out of the tent, bleeding profusely from her wounds but allowing the blood to attest to her strength. Even the cruelest of the Clan could not deny her adulthood any longer.

Now that Adalora was an adult in the eyes of Clan Lavellan, she was finally able to build up her courage to ask the Elders to allow her outside of the carefully set boundaries of her childhood. She had always dreamed of travelling beyond the trees of the Exalted Plains, but the Elders quickly put an end to that notion. 

“Stupid ath’lin,” the one called Caros sneered, pointing his gnarled fingers at her, “Your mere appearance could destroy this Clan! No, you will stay within sight of the camp at all times!”

“You cannot fault her,” twittered Felanim-the-ever-gossipy from beside the stoic Caros, “Don’t all penned halla wish to run?” 

Caros sneered, the Vallaslin across his lips casting strange line across his face and made him seem older. He was always an imposing figure in her childhood, swift to give any elfling a boxing about the ears should they step out of line. Velinne once told her that Caros used to be the Halla Keeper before his age caught up to him. Now he was grey around his dark temples and wore an eternal frown as he peered down at the bowed form of Adalora.

Felanim was a difficult character to pin down, much like the blond, wild curls of her hair. Felanim had been Adalora’s tutor upon the more deadly of the herbs that grew within the Dales, even though the former was a master healer. Felanim still held onto the vestiges of her youth, her clear blue eyes still sparkled with mischief and her dark bronze skin had yet to even wrinkle around her mouth. While Felanim seemed to be the lesser of two evils, her words could cut swifter and deeper than any blow given by Caros. Adalora had been on the wrong end of both and would rather take a beating versus a verbal lashing from the female Elder.

“Gracious Elders,” Adalora approached, “I know that a caravan is being prepared to travel to the Divine Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The First has elected to go without much protection besides a hunter and a healer, with three halla between them! Knowing my abilities, as well as my heritage, I wish to be of use to the noble Clan Lavellan. Please allow me to protect the First along this dangerous path.”

At this, Adalora prostrated herself at their feet, hair scattering like rivulets of blood down her back and onto the ground before her. There she stay for a few tense moments, breathing in deeply from her nose to keep her temper at bay. She hated the fact that Caros and Felanim held so much sway over her freedom, but knew she had to grovel for any chance to be heard.  
Felanim laughed melodically, covering her mouth with a dainty hand and whispering something under her breath to a skeptical Caros. Caros seemed to disagree with what the other had to say, exchanging a few harsh breaths of his own before he was cut off by more delicate winds from the former healer. Caros then stilled, face taking on a peculiar expression before he cleared his throat in a kingly manner. Adalora quickly drew herself up to attention, staring unfalteringly with her own amber orbs into Caros’.

“You have made a very interesting case,” Caros proclaimed as if speaking in front of a crowd of 100 instead of just two. 

“After deliberation between myself and our fellow Elder, we will allow you to travel with First Addis, as well as Hunter Iossa and Healer Cywen. You will protect them with your life, as they are expected at the Peace Conference. If one returns with but a scratch, expect grave punishment to befall you.”

Again, Adalora kneeled, “I understand my task. Thanks be to you, O Gracious Elders of Clan Lavellan.”

She then picked herself off the dirt floor of the tent and rushed out, almost tripping over her own feet to relay to her mother the great news, hair flying like flame behind her. As the half-blood ran, her stomach flipped into knots at the thought of leaving the aravel behind for the first time in her 18 years.

Finally, finally she would be free.


	2. Of Terrible First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adalora really hates her life.

When Adalora first woke up cold and reasonably sore in a dark, damp cell the first word that shot out of her mouth was probably the most appropriate response anyone could think of.

“Shit.”

As she picked herself off the grimy floor, the redhead hissed as her shoulder twinged painfully. The shackles were definitely a new development, as well as a few blood stains on her tunic she swore weren’t there before-

Before she-

“Bleeding thorns,” Adalora cursed as she racked her brain for  _ anything _ \- anything that would explain how she had gotten locked up in these heavy iron wristbands. She came up with nothing, not even a whisper of a memory. The journey to the Temple, the peace conference, everything was gone.

She was in so much trouble when she found the First. If Caros didn’t hate her already,  he surely would after they returned and- There was a shift of movement around her. Guards surrounded the circumference of the cell, each adorned with the traditional Fereldan armor of a soldier.

“Oh,  _ fuck  _ this,” Adalora spat and gripped her fists tightly as she attempted to wrench her wrists free of the horrid shackles.

Her mother, dearest mother of her heart, was going to have a fine time trying to explain this to the Keeper. She was so, so, so dead. If anything had happened to the First while she resided in this cell (for however long that might have been at this point), she could kiss her sorry ass goodbye. Not to mention the leash they would surely her on.

She pulled against the unforgiving metal again, the shackles grating on the delicate skin of her wrists. The half-blood looked down at her hands mournfully, when something caught her eye. A flicker of something as it lit the spaces between her fingers. Adalora turned her palm upward, studying the lines across her hand when a flame of green flowed  _ out.  _ She doubled over in pain, a burning knife stabbed over and over again into her hand! A dulled throb signalled the end of the attack and the redhead struggled to regain her breath.

The guards shifted nervously, swords drawn in caution while Adalora scoffed at their nervousness, after the urge of wanting to vomit up all of her organs had passed. She forced herself upright once more, not wanting the shem to notice her weakness. Cold sweat dripped from underneath the fringe of her dark rust hair. She wished she could wipe it before it got in her eyes.

The door in front of her flew open without fair warning, banging against the stone wall of the cell as a light illuminated two female figures from behind. The one in heavier armor stepped into the cell first, circling her beyond the light of the sconces like a predator playing with it’s future meal. The hooded woman stepped in next, strangely reminding Adalora of herself as the woman stepped into the light. The way their hair caught the light was similar, as well as how they kept it back in a hood-

Fuck, her hood was down. Exposing her round, definitely not elvhen ears.

The armored woman called Adalora back to the present, behind her now.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you right now,” the woman snarled into her ear.

Adalora swung her head and tilted it back to throw a glare at the woman, but said nothing. She couldn’t reveal her purpose, nor expose her clan. Adalora grit her teeth as the woman slunk into her forward line of vision.

“The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead,” the woman bore her teeth, “Except for you.”

The half-blood flinched, holding in the wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her better senses. Anger was the first, followed by grief, agony, cold acceptance. She would deal with her emotions later, when she was as far away from this cell as one could get in Thedas. She couldn’t afford to get distracted now.

Visibly frustrated, the scarred woman wrenched Adalora’s shackles cruelly to where the prisoner  was forced to bear witness, “Explain  _ this. _ ”

The offending hand sparked angrily again and she tensed in pain, wrenching the iron band from her captor’s grasp. Adalora’s hand shifted from black and green rapidly before it died down and became the familiar freckled skin she knew. Adalora tossed another glare at her interrogator.

“You have about as much clue about my hand that I do,” Adalora winced, “Same with the Temple.”

 

“Oh, so you  _ don’t  _ know how you miraculously survived the explosion that killed Divine Justinia,” the woman spat in Adalora’s face.

“No. I  _ really  _ don’t,” Adalora threw back with just as much venom.

“You’re lying!” The woman lunged.

Adalora tensed, expecting a forceful blow from her interrogator but the hooded woman clutched her companion’s upper arm to hold her back from what she had planned to do.

“We need her Cassandra,” the hooded woman beseeched her armored friend, Cassandra.

Adalora shook her head, suddenly tired and wary of all the secrecy that was obviously being communicated between the two women. She slumped forward, eyes lowered.

“I truly don’t understand what’s going on, any of it.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Ah, the hooded woman finally spoke.

Adalora’s eyes slipped closed as she attempted once more to recollect what had happened before she woke up in the cell she now occupied.

“I- I,” the half-blood stammered before she cleared her throat, “Mist. So much mist. Green mist everywhere. A bright light on a mountain spire, calling me. I ran towards her, the bright woman, but there was something behind me. Eyes flashed like flames in the shadow.  I reached out to her but she-”

Cassandra threw up a gloved hand, “I’ve heard quite enough of this, Leliana, you need to go to the Forward Camp. I will take her to the Rift.”

Leliana glanced once more at Adalora’s figure upon the cell floor before she nodded, robe flowing behind her as she turned beyond the doorway. Cassandra stepped forward, allowing the half-blood to finally glance upon the face of her captor. The obviously war-roughened woman paid Adalora’s investigative glances no mind and she unlocked the shackles and tied her hands together with twine. Adalora thought that Cassandra would look less like an angry dragon if she at least smiled a little.

“The explosion, how did-”

“It,” Cassandra stopped to pull Adalora up by her injured shoulder, “will be easier if I showed you.”

\-     -

The snow dropped peacefully around the two women as Adalora fought to tear her gaze away from the horrible sight.

“An explosion did that?” The half blood awed at the green tower of light emanating from the summit of a large mountain in the far distance.

“This one managed to do so,” Cassandra approached, “Unless we act swiftly, the Breach will grow until it swallows all of Thedas.”

The Breach rumbled ominously, spitting green flames into the swirling vortex of sky above. Adalora reflected briefly that this was probably a bad sign before her hand, oh fuck her hand. It sparked angrily and Adalora was powerless to fight against the waves of pain, the burning that tore through her veins until she swore it would stop her heart in it’s beat. She screamed, pleading to the sky, to any Gods that would hear her to stop the pain before she tipped over onto the ground. She clutched at the cold snow below, desperate for any relief.

Cassandra kneeled, throwing her arm out to gesture to the oh-so-obvious pillar of pain on the horizon, “Each time the Breach expands, so does your mark. It will kill you.”

Panting, Adalora threw her eyes up to Cassandra’s in desperation, “A-And you think  _ I  _ can close it?! That massive tear in the sky?!”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

Adalora beat down the urge to scoff, how utterly typical of the Fates to throw this shit at her. Dread wolf take her.

“All those people,” the half-blood realized suddenly, mouth dropping in a long sigh before she closed it.

“I’ll help. I have no clue how you plan on using this- this  _ thing _ on my hand, but if you need someone good with blades, I can offer my skill.”

Cassandra’s scowl seemed to soften, if only for a fraction of a second before it was gone behind the mask of hardness so fast Adalora wondered if she had imagined it. Cassandra pulled her up again, walking her towards the unmentionable peril they were sure to face.

\-     -

Just as soon as she had finished off what had seemed like the hundredth fade demon, her hand was forcefully taken against her will. The shock of it made her drop the knife she had found earlier, and she struggled against the elf’s hold.

“Quickly! Before more attempt to come through,” the bald-headed male called before brandishing her palm to the crystallized tear into the Fade. 

The area around the Rift seemed to shudder before it seemed to collapse into a stream and enter into the glowing mark on her hand. With effort, she fought through her shock and tore her wrist away from his grip, scowling at the other elf.

“Don’t do that.” Adalora gritted out, “What was all that you just did? With my hand?”

The elf seemed to defer to her, “ _ I* _ did nothing. The credit goes to you.”

Adalora opened her hand and stared at the scarred palm underneath, “You mean this thing.”

The elf nodded, “Whatever magic tore open the Breach also placed that mark upon your palm. I theorized that the mark might have been able to close the rifts that had opened after the explosion- seems as though I was correct.”

Smug bastard. Adalora studied the elf closely. He was definitely not marked by any of the Dalish clans, nor did he seem to be particularly attached to a Circle. An apostate then, possibly an Alienage elf.  However, as Adalora looked him over, she couldn’t help but feel  _ off,  _ like she should turn from his gaze. Cassandra stepped forward, still covered in the black goo that had spilled out from the fade demons.

“This means it could also close the Breach.”

“Possibly,” the elf countered before turning back to Adalora, “ It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Adalora sighed heavily, fighting the urge to pull the hair around her ears in frustration. The last thing she needed was to be involved in any of this, but yet here she was. Great.

“Good to know!” a gruff voice called from behind the group of three, “Here I was afraid we’d be ass deep in demons for eternity.”

Adalora puffed out a laugh under her breath, turning to the dwarf who had wielded his crossbow with vicious accuracy. He was unlike the dwarfs Clan Lavellan had trade with before, significantly less hairy and starved looking. Handsome, with a roguish air about him. He approached with a friendly gait, arms open as if to accept her into the mismatched group.

“Varric Tethras,” he began, sounding as if his name should be followed by a coy wink, “Rogue, storyteller, and an occasional unwelcome tag-along.” 

At this he did wink, only it was directed at Cassandra’s stiff form. She scowled and Adalora fought the urge to laugh.  Adalora broke the silence with an appreciative whistle.

“Nice crossbow,” she smiled, “‘s been a long while since I’ve seen one used so skillfully.”

Varric smirked appreciatively before glancing over his shoulder at his beloved possession, “Ah, thank you. She’s a piece of art in motion, isn’t she?  Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

“You named your weapon Bianca?” Adalora questioned, “I would have thought a more appropriate name would have been True Bolt or perhaps Flying Death.”

Varric chuckled warmly, amused at Adalora’s sense of humor, “While those names are fear-inspiring, she’s still my Bianca. She’ll be great company in the Valley.”

At this, Cassandra approached with her arms crossed sternly in front of her with her scowl at full force.

“No. Absolutely not. While your help has been appreciated Varric-”

Varric tilted his head, much like how a bird studies vermin in the bush, smile still present, “Have you been in the Valley lately, Seeker? Your forces have no control over any of this situation. You need me.”

Cassandra sneered, making a disgusted noise before turning on her heel to avoid looking at  Varric’s smug grin. Adalora watched their dynamic with amusement, pulling a piece of wayward hair from across her face and stuffing it back into her warm hood. The male elf approached.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see that you survived as long as you have.”

Varric chimed in over the noise of the breeze that blew all their clothes, “He means he watched over the mark, kept it from killing you while you slept.”

Adalora paled, fingers twitching for the knife that she had sheathed into her thigh holster. Then that meant-

Solas nodded at Varric’s assessment of the situation, “ However, what seemed to escape my explanation is how a human like yourself ended up with the Vallaslin, incomplete as it may be.”

Adalora sneered, “Human I am not. My mother is a proud hunter of the Dalish, and I am as any elf who travels in an araval.”

Solas’ flashed with a sudden understanding, a smug look crossing his features (did he know he was doing that?), “Ah. An elf-blood then.”

Varric hummed in understanding, shifting awkwardly as Cassandra’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline. Adalora willed the rolling feelings in her stomach to calm and she met the apostate’s eyes evenly with her own amber iris’. 

“Yes, I am  _ ath’lin _ . You have a problem with that?”

Solas shook his head, “Not at all. Merely odd that one such as yourself would be present at the Conclave, marked as you are.”

Adalora grit her teeth hard in her mouth, silver tongue aching to lash out and give that awful, smug-

Varric moved between them, hands up in a placating gesture and Adalora realized she had reached for her knife again. “Now now, let’s not get all feisty at each other. I think we should save all these warm, fluffy feelings and turn them into something productive, yes?”

Both elves acquiesced, Solas turning away from the fuming half-blood.

“Cassandra, you should know that the magic involved here is unlike any kind I have witnessed before. Your prisoner is no mage, that’s for certain. I find it hard to believe  _ any _ mage could cause the destruction you see before you.”

The Seeker nodded, “Understood. We must make for the Forward Camp with haste.”

As Cassandra walked on, Varric came out from behind Adalora’s focus. 

“Well, at least Bianca’s excited!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah. I rewrote this entire chapter within a span of 4 hours and then put it down on a Word Document. Most of the dialogue is directly from the game, changed up a little to spice it up a little. Solas is such a smug bastard honestly.


	3. Update: Not a Chapter

Hey so i haven't abandoned this but my life is a mess so i might get back to it later ???  
sorry


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